


Sweet and Potent Venom

by M_Moonshade



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Monster Hunters, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Blood, Frottage, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Oral Sex, but hell if it isn't enthusiastic, situation-based dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It bit me. Incubus saliva is potent enough to affect its victims through skin contact. Injected directly into the blood, it's lethal.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet and Potent Venom

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Thin Semantic Lines](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042104) by [bloodstonepentagram](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodstonepentagram/pseuds/bloodstonepentagram). 



> I've been craving two things lately: Victorian AU and fuck-or-die, so I figured, why not write one myself?
> 
> This is based on the Monster Hunter AU by Oxytrezart (NSFW)( http://oxytrezart.tumblr.com/post/66227799083/more-victorian-monsters-hunters-au-i-swear-i )  
> Some of the details are drawn from/inspired by Thin Semantic Lines by Psychosassic.

Some days, Carlos swears his companion is part gazelle. He’s practically bounding down the streets of London after his quarry, leaping over overturned crates and zigzagging around pedestrians, while Carlos is left behind with hurried apologies as he tries to catch up. Carlos tracks them to an alley-- and then the tracks stop at a dead end, with no Cecil and no incubus anywhere to be found. He whips around-- there has to be some sign of them, they can’t have just _disappeared_ \-- when he spots a window hanging wide open a few storeys up. He might not even have noticed if not for the boards that had once covered it, ripped from their nails with superhuman strength and left to swing in the breeze by a few splinters.

Carlos rushes around to the front and kicks the door down, shouting ‘police business!’ to passersby as way of explanation. It annoys Inspector Harlan to no end, but at least it keeps ordinary citizens from following him and Cecil into the jaws of yet another monster.

Someone really should do something about all the abandoned buildings in London. Not just for aesthetic purposes, but because they give supernatural beasts such effective places to hide. Carlos spots the apartment’s previous occupants-- squatters, likely, the poor souls-- as he rushes inside. Their bodies are dehydrated, almost mummified. He’d love to take samples for further study, but instead he rushes up the stairs toward the sound of a struggle. He’s on the third floor landing when the noises abruptly cut off, and his heart stops.

He has to remind himself that everything is all right. Cecil is a professional monster hunter. He’s done this plenty of times. Of course he’ll be the one to come out victorious this time around. But Carlos still pulls a hawthorn stake from his medical kit, just in case. A thought rushes through his head, uncharacteristic in its ferocity: If _that monster hurt him, I’ll kill it slowly._

But it won’t come to that. Cecil’s fine. Cecil’s a master of this art, and he’s _fine_.

Carlos follows the memory of sound to one of the doors, recently cracked from conflict. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and throws open the door, leaping into the room for an attack. But the incubus is already sprawled face-down across the floor, a second stake driven cleanly through its heart. Cecil stands over its body.

“Oh, thank God,” Carlos whispers, and then louder. “Mr. Palmer, you frightened me half to death just now. I was worried something horrible had… happened.”

Cecil’s smile, usually blinding in its brilliance, is wan and thin. He hasn’t moved since Carlos burst through the door. There are flecks of red on his neck-- and a patch of darkness on the mangled shoulder of his jacket.

“Carlos.” His voice sounds strained. “I’ve got this taken care of. If you could just go back to the house, that would be…” He shudders. “That would be good.”

“What are you talking about? Mr. Palmer, you’re hurt--” Carlos starts toward him, and Cecil backs away.

“It’s a risk everyone takes when they enter into this occupation. It’s…” A ragged breath. “It’s nothing. Just go.”

“Mr. Palmer--”

“The faster the better, please.”

“Mr. Palmer, if that wound isn’t treated immediately, it stands risk of infection. I insist that you let me attend to it.”

“This,” Cecil shrugs the injured shoulder with some difficulty. “It won’t have the chance to advance to that stage. The only one at risk here is you. So Carlos, please. Leave.”

The tone in his voice has Carlos frightened. “Just tell me what’s going on, and I’ll do as you ask. I just-- I need to understand.”

“Scientists.” Cecil rolls his eyes in a gesture that would be playful if it didn’t look like it took so much effort. “It bit me. Incubus saliva is potent enough to affect its victims through skin contact. Injected directly into the blood, it becomes…” He shudders again.

Carlos steps forward, and again he backs away, until his injured shoulder hits the wall behind him.

“Which part of ‘incubus’ don’t you understand?” Cecil demands, his voice climbing to an alarming volume. “It isn’t just toxic, it’s an aphrodisiac. I’m trying to keep it under control, but my damn body is trying to excise the poison, and if you don’t get out of here immediately--” He scrubs one hand violently over his eyes. “Just go, Carlos. Please, just go.”

“No.” Carlos moves closer, and this time there’s no place for Cecil to retreat to. “Mr. Palmer, let me help you.”

He’s read up on incubi. In too high of doses, their venom is highly toxic, but it can be excreted through sweat and... other bodily fluids, if handled quickly enough. If it isn’t, the victim will burn alive under the heat of his own lust. It’s a horrible way to die.

Carlos pulls the jacket off Cecil’s shoulders and throws it to the side. He has half a mind to rip the waistcoat off, too, but the force of such an action would only aggravate the wound. Already Cecil is whimpering as he hurries to unbutton the garment.

“You-- ah-- you said you’d go.” His cheeks are flushed, his eyes dilated and wide as saucers. All symptoms of shock, Carlos tells himself.

“I lied.” Carlos doesn’t even bother getting rid of the waistcoat, only throws it open, letting it dangle from Cecil’s elbows before he starts on the shirt. “I’m not leaving you like this.”

“I don’t want to--” Cecil throws his head back, panting hard. “I’ll-- I’ll hurt you, if you stay. You’ll never forgive me.”

“I can learn to live with it.” The first four buttons are finally undone-- enough for Carlos’ immediate purposes. He sweeps the stained fabric off the injured shoulder and puts his mouth to the wound. An extractor pump would be ideal, but his medical kit doesn’t contain one. After all, what are the chances of running into a poisonous serpent in downtown London? In its absence, the old-fashioned way will do. He sucks at the wound, spitting blood and venom to the side. With every draw, Cecil throws his head back and cries out-- a sound that straddles the border between an agonized howl and an ecstatic moan-- and the sound circumvents any pretense Carlos had of professional detachment. He’s done so well for himself, hidden his affection for Cecil so carefully, but the excess venom is seeping through his skin and boiling his blood.

He wipes the blood from his face. He must look monstrous right now. But the look Cecil is fixing him with has nothing to do with horror or fear.

His mouth hangs open and heavy breaths rasp over his lips. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes hooded by heavy lids, and his brow is half-furrowed, as though he’s listening to far-off music.

“Carlos,” he whispers, barely a breath, and the sound has such a texture that it sends a thrill down the scientist’s spine. “You should have gone.”

Carlos opens his mouth to protest, to insist that he wouldn’t dream of abandoning his friend, but he doesn’t get the chance before Cecil is upon him. His mouth is hot and hungry. His teeth scrape over Carlos’ lower lip, drawing a surprised yelp from Carlos. The sound only spurs Cecil on, and suddenly his tongue is between his teeth, tasting every inch of his mouth.

His hands are roaming like wild animals-- one hand slides under his shirt, while the other fists in his hair and pulls back his head, baring his throat. Carlos’ hands are on Cecil, pulling him closer as the other man kisses a fiery trail down his neck. A flash of teeth, and this time it’s Carlos’ turn to howl.

But the sound must have knocked something loose in Cecil, because all at once he pulls away. He’s shaking as he holds the scientist at arm’s length.

“Carlos?” His voice is strained. “Carlos, did I hurt you--?”

Carlos means to say something reassuring, to bring back logic and reason and the medical necessity for this procedure, but all that comes out is, “Please don’t stop.”

He isn’t even sure which one of them closed the distance this time-- only that they’re flush against each other once again, and Cecil’s palm is cupped against the aching bulge in his trousers, and his thigh is pressed between Cecil’s legs, and every ounce of friction feels so good he could cry.

“God, Mr. Palmer--” The last syllable breaks into a cry of pleasure as Cecil tightens his grip on Carlos’ member.

“My name,” he snarls, possessive and fierce and _good lord_ , Carlos has never been so aroused. “How many times have I told you to _use. My. Name._ ”

“Cecil!” He punctuates the blessed, beautiful word with a ruthless thrust, and he’s rewarded with a bolt of bliss as he grinds into Cecil’s hand. “Oh, Cecil, Cecil, _Cecil_ \--” and suddenly he’s coming undone, collapsing under the force of his orgasm. Above him, Cecil throws back his head, gasping and shaking as he follows Carlos in climax.

Boneless and weak, Carlos nuzzles against his companion’s thigh. No matter what comes next, he wants to savor this moment, the smell of sex and sweat and Cecil, the taste of brandy and those pralines he sneaks when he thinks nobody’s looking, the pull of those nimble hands in his hair, the feel of bliss and closeness and that beautiful body against his own,.

That beautiful body, Carlos realizes, which is still very much at attention.

A spike of disappointment and shame solidifies behind the lust-haze. Was he not good enough? Did he come too soon? And then reason and fear replace the more selfish emotions: is Cecil still in danger?

Carlos paws at Cecil’s trousers, still too deep into post-coital bliss for this much coordination. “May I?” he asks, almost as an afterthought, and glances up in supplication. Cecil meets his gaze, and his eyes are so very dark they take his breath away.

“Cecil, please…” It comes out a moan, and Cecil’s head tips back.

Far more agile hands fumble with Cecil’s trousers, opening them wide and finally liberating his member from beneath the layers of fabric. It’s perfect and erect and wet with release. The observation brings an accomplished smile to Carlos’ face, and he draws his tongue across the head, savoring the bitter-salt flavor and the gasp from overhead. He leans in closer to lick again, again, cleaning every inch of the glorious erection with his tongue before he brings the head into his mouth.

“Carlos!”

He could hear no other sound for the rest of his life and it still wouldn’t be enough. He descends on him, taking in as much as he can handle and then slowly drawing it past his lips. All the while his eyes are on the other man, taking in the way Cecil’s mouth trembles around each breath, the way his eyes are rolled back in his head, the way his hands claw uselessly at the air.

In a flash of inspiration (which might have been borrowed from a popular bodice ripper), Carlos grabs Cecil’s hands and presses them to his scalp.

“Show me what you want,” he whispers, his lips brushing Cecil’s shaft. He runs his tongue over the vein that runs underneath, reveling in the soft skin there. “Cecil. My Cecil.”

Abruptly the hands form fists in Carlos’ hair, pulling and twisting with such a sweet urgency that Carlos can’t help but moan. Apparently the sound has a pleasant effect, because Cecil echoes it a heartbeat later and pulls Carlos deeper around him, deeper, deeper. He’s almost choking on it now, but there’s no way he’s going to stop. Not when Cecil is making those sinful sounds and pulling at his hair like it’s a lifeline. With a bit of concentration he swallows, earning him another euphoric gasp from Cecil.

He’s barely moving anymore, just held in place as Cecil holds him and thrusts into his mouth, over and over again. His hands knead into Cecil’s trousers, clawing at his flank, his thighs-- every inch he can reach, scrabbling for purchase so he can have more.

All at once Cecil stiffens and he moves to pull away. The sudden change might have frightened Carlos, if not for the salt of precome dancing on his tongue. He slides back, as though to release him, and then clamps his lips down tight around Cecil’s head and sucks.

There’s a stuttering cry, a spasm, a tidal wave, and Carlos drinks it greedily down, lapping for more before he finally draws back to lean on his hands.

This time, when Cecil’s cock recedes, it stays down.

“The… ah… the toxin should be clear of your system by now,” Carlos says, wiping a sleeve across his mouth. His voice is haggard from recent abuse.

“Oh.” Cecil’s still blinking the haze from his eyes as he fumbles his clothes back on. “Er… Thank you. For… you didn’t have to do that. For me.” He extends a hand to help him up, and suddenly Carlos understands.

He has a way out of this. One word, and he can claim that all of this was purely to save Cecil’s life. That any passion that might have passed between them was a result of the venom, and nothing more. He has the chance to go on as though nothing’s happened, as though he won’t be reliving the last hour in his dreams for the rest of his life. He has the chance, and all he has to do is take it.

“Of course,” he says finally. He accepts Cecil’s help, but doesn’t let go once he’s on his feet. Instead he brings the hand close and brushes the knuckles against his lips. “I love you too dearly to let an incubus take you from me.”


End file.
